


Blood on My Lips

by EagleofMasyaf (roelani)



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Drama, F/M, M/M, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-24
Updated: 2011-07-24
Packaged: 2017-10-21 17:23:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/227706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roelani/pseuds/EagleofMasyaf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The end of things, as I felt it should've been before Bowen destroyed everything. No assassin should die weakened and in his bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood on My Lips

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheSwordKing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSwordKing/gifts).



_Deep in the ocean, dead and cast away  
Where innocences burn in flames  
A million mile from home, I'm walking ahead  
I'm frozen to the bones, I am _

The fortress is busy with rampant chaos and panic around him as Altaïr steps out through a low, arched door at the side of the upper battlements. Below him, spread out over the valley, a large body of men is massing, and the noise and din of the army over the plains reaches his ears as a growing buzz.

He blinks numbly down at the massed ranks, letting his gaze float over the grey, shapeless throng of men; they are all the same to him from this distance, faceless, anonymous, impossible to hate. He wants to see their faces, to look into their eyes and see his own scorn and hatred reflected back at him. He wants to release this helpless feeling that is tearing him apart.

The army has been sieging Masyaf for days and no one had expected that first, furious strike against the fortress. Altaïr stands with his back bowed stiffly, resting his arms against the ramparts, his eyes cold and hard as he fights to keep his breathing steady, to keep from breaking, again. He hears Maria approach with soft, hesitant steps behind him, and a faint, worried whimper tells him that Saqr, his youngest son, is standing with her. He cannot turn to face her, staring unseeing at the army.

"I cannot stay here, Maria," he voices into the still, cold air, glancing up briefly at the darkening skies. His heart is breaking, has been breaking for -days-, and the slow torture is killing him, destroying whatever is left of him. "I am walking out to meet them."

Altaïr slowly turns to her, and she is staring wide-eyed at him, clutching their son's shoulders as the boy clings to her legs, staring worriedly between both of them. "You cannot do this, Altaïr." Her voice is shaky and strangled, caught somewhere between anger and grief. "You -cannot- do this! They will destroy you and you know it. Even with the Apple, even you, cannot face this alone." She steps closer, her heart-shaped face twisting into an angry, ugly sneer; there are dark circles under her eyes and Altaïr has to remind himself that she too has been grieving, for the one son they have already lost during that first mad rush when the army struck in the night, a mere two days ago.

"It will give both you and Saqr, and the rest of the men, a chance to escape, Maria." His voice is strangled and close to cracking as he speaks; he has not eaten since the attack and he is exhausted, barely able to stand on his own two feet without collapsing, his own pain almost too much to bear. "We cannot risk another sortie; they could stand this siege for months. You know this."

There is a long pause before Maria finally disentangles herself from their son, who stands there mutely, a tearful, uncertain look on his young face.

"You are not doing this for us, you selfish bastard!" She steps closer and now there are tears falling freely down her stained cheeks. "He is -dead-, Altaïr, and this will not bring him back. You are a coward, if you cannot face this. -I- am still here. Your son is still here!"

Altaïr shakes his head, once, his face blank and slack, before turning away. He cannot match her outburst, cannot -feel- anything beyond his own grief. And he knows she is right, could not argue with her and cannot stand that look of betrayed anger on her face. "Sound the call for the men to retreat. Take the pass up through the mountains behind the fortress."

He walks then, away from them both, ducking back inside the dark corridors and pausing briefly, turning to her, burning the contours of her face to memory. "This is all I can give you, now."

 _A soldier on my own, I don't know the way  
I'm riding up the heights of shame  
I'm waiting for the call, the hand on the chest  
I'm ready for the fight, and fate_

Altaïr's feet take him down past his study and through darkened halls. He passes several opened doors, making his way through the empty corridors slowly, forcing his steps to remain even and steady. Behind each door lie the bodies of those lost in the attack and the following attempted raids to cut off the Templar army's supply routes. Men, women and children, shrouded and waiting for an opportunity to be buried. He ignores each door until he reaches one which is already painfully familiar.

He cannot stand to step inside, cannot survive seeing him like this again, but his feet move him towards the door nonetheless and he opens it with shaking hands, stepping into the darkness. The smell of death is strong, assaults him, burns into his nose and mouth until he can no longer breathe. Altaïr moves further inside, reaches one small cot and all but crumbles to his knees.

His hand shakes as he reaches up to pull the linen slowly off the body that rests on the cot and a strangled, choked sob escapes him. He stares, blinking away helpless tears, at Malik's whitened, slack face. He had thought all his tears dried but there are more, and they fall down his cheeks despite his mad attempts at controlling them. The Dai's skin is sallow and tight over his cheeks, his hair mussed and tangled, faint traces of blood still caked at the corners of his lips.

Altaïr slowly stands and sits on the edge of the cot, Malik's body cold and unyielding against his hip, and leans down to rest his forehead against the man's chest, hands turning white-knuckled and clawed as he clutches the thin linen still draped over dead flesh. He cries, in great, wracking sobs, until his tears run dry and nothing is left of him but grief.

 _The sound of iron shocks is stuck in my head,  
The thunder of the drums dictates  
The rhythm of the falls, the number of deaths  
The rising of the horns, ahead_

The sentries posted at the gate turn to him slowly; Altaïr ignores them and steps around them, dropping a hand on the shoulder of the man closest to him. "The alarm will sound soon. You should be ready to leave; follow my... follow Maria. She will lead you all into the mountains."

The man--he is young, so young--turns a worried face towards him, hesitating. "Where are you going, master? ... Master?"

Altaïr walks past him, squeezing his shoulder briefly. His white robes feel strange and unfamiliar over his skin but the weight of the belts and weapons slung over him is reassuring and his steps lighten as he walks under the arch of the fortress and leaves Masyaf behind. He shakes his head, unable to answer the men's questioning calls as their voices rise in alarm.

He can no longer trust his voice to speak, his mind lost in that dark room where Malik rests, but his steps gain confidence as he walks down the twisting path and reaches the ridge of cliff that looks down onto the plains below. The army comes into view, massive, threatening and impossible to overcome. Altaïr's heart beats a slow, even rhythm in his chest; there is nothing else he can do now but this, and he raises his hands, tightens the buckles on both of his bracers and steps over the edge of the low cliff, landing in a crouch at the edge of the plains.

He straightens slowly, the wind picks up his robes and they fly around him. The army waits and he walks, walks to meet whatever fate he can now find, that leads away from Masyaf, away from that darkened room and the sight of Malik's skin stretched tight over deadened flesh.

 _From the dawn of time to the end of days  
I will have to run, away  
I want to feel the pain and the bitter taste  
Of the blood on my lips, again_

A voice rises over the throng, jeering; the Templar leader sits up on his horse, barking at him in rapid French which Altaïr almost cannot be bothered to decipher.

"Un seul d'entre vous a le courage de se montrer le nez, assassin? Es-tu venu pour négocier les termes de votre capitulation?" The man, a hulking beast with a scar disfiguring his face from forehead to chin, walks his horse forward, reining the beast in a few dozen feet from Altaïr while the soldiers closest to him approach, the jingle of their armour ringing loudly in his ears.

"No." He glances up, meets the Templar's eyes, his face blank and empty under his hood as the wind dances around them both. The horse is nervous, smells the death that sticks to his robes, rears as the man sitting atop its back pulls back hard against the reins. Altaïr feels the eyes of the soldiers on him and he slowly draws his sword, steps closer and stands, his blade pointing at the ground. "No surrender."

Another jeering sneer and a gauntleted hand rises into the darkened sky. "Then you will die." The Templar's hand drops and men rush at him. Finally, blissfully, Altaïr raises his sword to meet steel, ducking under the first soldier's blade and turning as he slices his sword across the man's unprotected neck.

He dances now, swirling amidst a slowly tightening circle of men. His blade finds flesh between armoured plates, nicks past defences and slices through leather and skin. The dance is a relief, his mind empty as he fights, ducking under their guard to deal death and pain. The men who fall around him slow the progress of others behind him and soon the soldiers are hesitating.

Altaïr sees nothing but red, feels nothing but the slick glide of his sword into flesh. A man steps too close, and his eyes are wide as he realizes his mistake; his stance is loose and clumsy. Altaïr turns to him, raising his blade, lips turned up in a slight snarl. Another Templar steps closer, brings a heavy mace down over his blade and it goes tumbling out of his grasp onto the rocky ground. He raises his head, staring at the first man's widened eyes, anger and hatred surging through him.

There is no time now for anything but movement, no time for thought, and Altaïr reaches for the short blade at his back and lunges at the frightened man, the blade singing through the Templar's neck in a rush of splattering red which does nothing to soften his grief. More men rush him as the man falls dead at his feet. The circle tightens and Altaïr's movements quicken, an edge of despair sneaking into each strike. A blade snakes past his guard and slashes painfully at his thigh, another stabs into his side, cutting a deep gash into his flesh, staining his robes a deep, dark red.

Finally he turns, meets a soldier's blade with his own and stumbles back; when he straightens up there is another man lunging at him, swinging a heavy longsword against his guard. His blade shatters as he crumbles to his knees. The man's momentum carries him forward and Altaïr raises his left hand and slams his hidden blade into the Templar's unprotected hip, standing up with a grunt and forcing his blade up through flesh and leather until he can pull it out of the man's chest.

A sharp, blaring sound pierces through his ragged breathing and the noise of his blood thrumming in his ears. Altaïr turns, glances up at the fortress and nods to himself. The Templar leader urges his horse closer, following Altaïr's gaze before turning back to him and sliding off the horse's saddle, approaching him with a maddened, angry glint in his eyes. Altaïr stands his ground, but he knows it is pointless now; the fortress has been emptied and he is exhausted, bleeding from half a dozen wounds.

When a gauntleted hand strikes across his face he does nothing to block the blow. It sends him reeling to the ground, a sharp gasp of pain exploding from his parched throat. There is blood and sand in his mouth, gritting and thick. But he laughs, pushing himself up from the ground slowly, reaching up to wipe bloody spittle from his chin. Masyaf is little more than a dark shadow in the darkening sky now; he can no longer see its contours as he draws himself up onto his knees, turning to stare at the Templar leader as the man stalks towards him, unsheathing a long broadsword.

Altaïr's laugh grows darker and strangled; he reaches down, fumbles with numb fingers into the pouch at his side and pulls out the Apple, its light casting a strange, flickering glow over the circle of men pressing close around him.

"Masyaf has been emptied." His voice is dead and he forces his ragged breathing to slow as he raises his hand, uncurling his fingers from the Apple slowly. The glow rises, pulses, flares, and a look of shocked fear crosses the Templar's face.

"Espèce de vil chien sans courage! Tu mourras avec le reste de mon armée, assassin."

Altaïr laughs, lets the Apple's strange, numbing light flow over and into him, and nods. "Yes, I will."

The burst, when it finally comes, is soundless and massive. The Apple discharges in Altaïr's hand and engulfs half the valley in rush of white, swirling light. He feels pain only briefly, as the power surges through him, and Malik's voice rings in his ears when his eyes finally close.

"Safety and peace, brother."

 _The steady burst of snow is burning my hands,  
I'm frozen to the bones, I am  
A million mile from home, I'm walking away  
I can't remind your eyes, your face_

The valley is decimated and empty when Maria finally manages to make her way down from the mountain and back into Masyaf; what remains of the army is occupying the fortress and she cannot linger long. There are a few men with her as she steps into the valley but she ignores them, walking forward until she reaches the circle of men slumped dead around her husband's body.

Half the army lies in waste around him, torn and destroyed when the Apple's power was released into them. The Templar leader's body is mangled, an unrecognizable mess of flesh and bones and Maria averts her gaze, kneeling slowly down next to Altaïr's body. He seems almost restful, sprawled on his back where the power has pushed him from his knees. There is a strange half smile curling on his scarred, cold lips and his eyes stare unseeing at the sky.

She cannot cry for him; he was already dead and lost days before, and lost to -her- before she had even met him. Maria leans closer, brushes her lips against his and reaches up to slowly force his eyes closed. When she finally gets to her feet, she has to force herself not to shake; she turns back towards her own men, dismissing their concerned glances with a stiff wave of her hand.

"He no longer has the Apple," she says, and her voice is as steady as she can manage it.

"... His body?"

Maria turns back, stares at the army lying in ruins around her husband's body. "Leave it. This... is the burial he would have wanted."

 _I want to feel the pain and the bitter taste  
Of the blood on my lips, again_

The halls of the ancient fortress are empty and desolate, the stones crumbling to dust in places, discarded weapons littering the floor. Ezio had not thought he would fight so hard and so long to rid this ancient place of Templars. He is exhausted, worn and tired but he follows the ghostly figure through the corridors, tilting his head as the white shape of his ancestor turns briefly towards him when it reaches the edge of a long, narrow passage and ducks under the door. Ezio follows, his steps mirroring the ghostly figure's, tilting his head when he reaches the room beyond.

The large, stained-glassed window is broken and destroyed, the desk rotten and crumbling, but he recognizes the place as Altaïr's study. Ezio walks towards the desk, stepping over and up onto the raised platform. The shelves around the alcove are piled high with scrolls and books, most of them too rotten or cracked to be read. He raises a hand up and pushes his hood back, stepping closer to briefly run his fingers over the spines of some of the more solid volumes.

Movement makes him turn again; he catches a glimpse of white robes at the edge of his vision and when his eyes fall back on the ancient desk, it's no longer rotting and broken. The wood is rich and dark and Altaïr is standing there before him. The ancient fortress seems healthy and vivid again as Ezio stares, crumbling stone giving way to strong pillars, the cold light from the window slowly turning warm and brightly tinted as it falls through intact coloured glass. A faint smile is tugging at Altaïr's scarred lips and Ezio answers it with one of his own.

"Thank you," the man says, nodding his head at him. Another burst of movement forces Ezio's head to the side and he stares as another man approaches, dressed in dark robes that contrast strangely with Altaïr's pale shape. Ezio doesn't recognize this dark stranger but the man approaches Altaïr with the easy grace of long familiarity, wrapping his single arm low around the assassin's waist and shooting Ezio a wry grin which doesn't quite reach his eyes. This newcomer's face is sharp and dark, brows heavy and apparently perpetually furrowed.

But Altaïr seems not to notice a dark mood in the other man, leaning into the other's touch with a soft sigh that surprises Ezio. The white shape of his ancestor reaches out and tugs the other man firmly closer, embracing him tightly and Ezio has to turn his face away; there is something altogether too private there, too raw, that he doesn't quite want to witness. He hears the rustle of cloth and when he turns back the contours of the study are dimming again, the stone turning back to the dim grey it was before, the window shimmering faintly before the glass disappears and the light filters through, pale and washed again.

He sees two figures locked together, leaning against the ruins of a desk which is no longer standing, moving as one as hands ghost over and under robes which he can barely discern as they both fade. Ezio smiles, looks up again at the destroyed window. Below, he can see the craggy shape of the mountains around the fortress; the wind rustles through the broken glass, picks up dust and swirls it around the darkened room.

When he turns to leave the two shapes have completely disappeared but the desolate, empty halls no longer seem to reek of death and pain. He makes his torturous way slowly out of the fortress and back outside, pausing to turn his collar up against the wind and pull his hood back over his head. Masyaf lies behind him now and he walks down the mountain path, starting the long trek back home with a relieved sigh.

\-------------------------------------

"Un seul d'entre vous a le courage de se montrer le nez, assassin? Es-tu venu pour négocier les termes de votre capitulation?"  
\----- "Only one of you has the courage to show his face? Have you come to negotiate the terms of your surrender?"

"Espèce de vil chien sans courage! Tu mourras avec le reste de mon armée, assassin."  
\----- "You spineless dog! You'll die with the rest of my army, assassin."


End file.
